


Carpe Diem

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Non-Consensual, Rape, Sex Pollen, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Classic fuck-or-die. Dean would rather die, but Sam's not letting that happen.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Carpe Diem

Dean tries to say no, of course.

Hell, he more than tries. Dean looks Sam in the eye and says, "No way, dude. I am _not_ fucking you." He's shaking as he says it, the curse already taking its toll and tearing him apart, but clearly his mental capacity remains unimpaired.

The look in Dean's eyes is completely resolute.

"Dean," Sam says, and realizes he's shaking too—with terror and frustration and the knowledge that they only have thirty minutes left. "You'll die."

"Well," says Dean. "That'll suck. But it'll be a hell of a lot better than having your dick up my ass, so I think I'll deal."

All Sam can think is that this should be easier—what's the point of a curse that says you have to get fucked within an hour or die in burning _agony_ if it doesn't actually kick the victim's sex drive into high gear? This would be so easy if Dean's willpower were chipping away—if the magic were convincing him that he _wanted_ this. Sam's got no worries about his own ability to perform, and he'll feel guilty about that later. Once Dean isn't dead. But at the moment he's got bigger problems than feeling like he's taking advantage of his brother's predicament.

Because Dean doesn't look like he has any intention of letting himself be taken advantage of, and Sam is running out of ideas fast.

He wonders how long his brother will hate him for what he has to do.

It's absurdly easy to overpower Dean. For all the years they've spent sparring and fighting and learning each other's weaknesses, Dean is no match—like this, anyway—for the full focus of Sam's intent or the height and bulk of Sam's body. When Sam gets him pinned to the bed, all he has to do is wrestle Dean over onto his stomach and trap his wrists behind his back with one hand. Sam's gut twists at the curses and growls and angry threats that Dean is making—"Fuck you, Sammy, don't you fucking _dare_ , I swear to god I'll-"—but there's something else, something more like excitement wriggling through his veins as he holds Dean down, and god he's a monster for it, but he wants this so badly he can taste it.

Dean's long sleeves tangle easily around his wrists when Sam drags the shirt just far enough off to make escape more difficult.

Sam knew even before they got here that this was how it would go, so he's already got what he needs: a small bottle of lube from its hiding place at the bottom of his duffel. Dean's curses rise to shouts of protest as Sam drags his brother's pants down over his hips and works slick fingers into the tight heat of his ass.

"Dean!" Sam snarls, scared and angry and hopelessly turned on. He drops all of his weight down on Dean's back and clamps his dry hand over Dean's mouth to silence him. "Fuck, do you want someone to _hear_ you?" Because as much as Dean doesn't want Sam working him open and fucking him, Sam knows how much worse it would be if someone came in and found them like this. Dean stills instantly beneath him, chilled and frozen, and finally shakes his head—can't answer in words with Sam's palm held so tightly over his mouth.

He stays quiet when Sam pulls the silencing hand away, but his struggles renew with a fierce intensity—bucking and twisting against Sam's weight and then grunting like it hurts when his movements inadvertently drive Sam's fingers deeper. Sam dodges when Dean throws his head back to try and hit him hard in the nose, and it's a new, irrational anger that has him spearing a third finger into Dean, harsh and sudden alongside the two already working Dean loose.

Dean gives a loud gasp, then a raspy, " _Sam_!" as Sam twists the fingers inside him, gentler now. He has to work Dean open—more open than _this_ —because Sam's a grower _and_ a shower, and he doesn't want to tear his brother apart when they finally get to the fucking.

Sam has to cover Dean's mouth again when he finally slides his cock into place.

He tries to be gentle—wishes he could say he _wants_ to be gentle, but there's something intoxicating about the feel of Dean strung-out and shaking beneath him, still struggling, and Sam's never felt anything so amazing. Self control is a long forgotten memory, and now that Sam is doing this, he's _doing_ this, gasping against Dean's skin as he slams deep in a single thrust.

He needs both hands after that: to grasp Dean's hips, to hold Dean down, to keep him from wriggling out of the sleeves that are still restricting his movements.

Dean keeps muttering through every thrust: "fuck you" and "get that thing the _fuck_ out of me" and other, less intelligible things as Sam's cock drives into him—as Dean's voice tapers off into gasps and chokes and startled sobs for a moment before he can find his rebellious words again. Sam recognizes every syllable for the front it is, the wall of Dean's last defense, his poker face crumbling as what Sam is doing to him shatters him down to the soul. Sam's heart twinges—and he reminds himself again that that's for later. He can feel guilt and remorse and self-loathing later, but right now he has to finish this.

It's been so long since Sam fucked anyone—let alone the brother he's spent his whole life secretly pining for—that he doesn't expect to last long. It's a near thing a couple of times, but something stubborn inside of him holds out even as exhaustion begins to quiet Dean's voice and struggles. The force of Sam's thrusts doesn't flag, and Dean flinches beneath him when he drives too deep, too hard, wrong angle. Dean's hips are bruising prettily beneath Sam's fingers, just like his thighs when Sam changes up his grip to spread Dean's legs wider.

When he finally comes, it's a supernova of sensation, and the only sound he can manage is a heavy groan as he drops across Dean's back in a spent sprawl. He has no idea if Dean got off, but he suspects not. It doesn't matter anyway, as far as the curse is concerned. The sudden swirl of wind through the room confirms that the spell is broken—there are no windows open, nowhere natural for that wind to have come from.

Dean doesn't give Sam the chance to catch his breath, already rolling his shoulders and twisting beneath him, trying to dislodge him from everywhere at once. Sam pulls out with a slick, unpleasant sound and scoots back on his knees.

Without Sam interfering, Dean is able to work free of his tangled sleeves, throwing the flannel across the room with stiff arms. Without looking at Sam, Dean reaches for his pants and boxers and pulls them back up his hips with shaking hands. He moves too gingerly as he shifts into a sitting position, and his head hangs to the side, refusing to look Sam in the eye.

"Didn't expect you to enjoy that so much," says Dean. His voice sounds numb. "How long you been waiting to do that?"

"Dean—" Sam whispers, suddenly desperate to explain. ' _Explain what_?' asks a taunting voice in his head. ' _That you didn't want it like this_?' Yeah, maybe not. Because Sam's pretty sure he just came harder than he ever has in his life—pretty sure that he wishes the curse had been more than a one-shot deal because he kind of wants to knock Dean flat on his back and try it again.

"Fuck you," says Dean, tired and furious and broken, as he stands on unsteady legs and disappears into the bathroom.

The door closes on a slam behind him, and all Sam can do is stare.


End file.
